


Five Times Alec Didn't Get Busy

by soundingsea



Category: Dark Angel
Genre: Multi, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2007, recipient:torch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-06 00:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soundingsea/pseuds/soundingsea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lap dance, bar scene, one-night stand, diversion, impulsive kiss: five alternative moments in time for the X-5 who's always all right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Alec Didn't Get Busy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [torch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/torch/gifts).



> AU for 2x08, 2x11, 2x12, 2x16, 2x17. Thanks to my betas: spiralleds, whose tireless dedication always coaxes better writing out of me; herowlness, for all her thoughts on character voices; chelseafrew, for giving me her vote of confidence. Any remaining errors are my own.

* * *

  


_one: girls without gills_

  


* * *

Drinks stick to the tables, chairs sag in a decidedly understuffed way, and the mermaid's tank leaks onto a carpet smelling of mildew and old cigarettes. Blowfish isn't exactly a high-class joint, but proximity to Jam Pony and two-fers have their appeal.

Too bad tonight's all business. Could have been two girls dancing for Alec if he'd found the right words; he saw the way O.C. was hovering like she'd just as soon join Max in her bath. Max is, of course, oblivious to any and all such things not involving Logan, but Alec recognizes O.C.'s look of frustrated desire.

He wishes Original Cindy luck, though he has none to share; his odds are just as bad. Max looks at him like he's her brother or something, with a nice dollop of unaccountable guilt on top. Not exactly conducive to seduction, which is probably why she's fumbling so awkwardly through this faux lap-dance.

Fantasies aside, nothing personal, no getting involved: this is a rescue mission, as Max keeps reminding him. She turns away, trying out some unrehearsed wriggling. Makes him shift in his seat and wish they didn't have an audience. True, Sketchy's mostly watching Normal and his spendthrift hetero-fest (which is hilarious, considering Normal's crush on Alec), but the roaming eyes of bouncers and customers keep this from being all Alec wants. Well, that and Max's indifference.

Cynicism wells up and threatens to choke him; just then, Max gives him that thousand-watt smile. Her tank-top ruches up on her back as she leans into him, the fabric gliding along her skin and stripping his mind of conscious thought. Maybe not desire, but there's something electric between them.

Alec's history is written in the curve of Max's bicep, the scent of her hair, the straight lines of her barcode. He nuzzles it and tastes home.

 

* * *

  


_two: the gay agenda_

  


* * *

 

So much for global warming; the post-Pulse world feels colder. Snow fell overnight, blanketing Seattle and making for a disconcerting crunch under Logan's exoskeleton as he hurries from his trusty Bessie into Crash.

He's glad for the warmth inside, metabolic waste of a hundred bodies. Some terrible 90s cover band is playing for no reason Logan can discern; this music wasn't that great the first time around. Scanning the room for the Jam Pony crew, he sees Mr. Difficult himself.

Alec's sitting at the bar, keeping company with a bottle of what looks to be pre-Pulse Scotch. He's dangling the locket from the previous night's disastrous dinner party at Joshua's, and doesn't look up. Logan shakes his head, orders a locally brewed beer, and situates himself at one of the small round tables.

Half-peeled strips of a faded Heineken label cling to the bottle. Logan takes a sip and grimaces; moderation in hops is a mystery to the homebrewers who supply Crash. At least they're recycling. Meanwhile, Alec's tipping back his drink like it's water instead of paint thinner. Genetic enhancements have got to be good for something, Logan supposes.

"Original Cindy gets the appeal," O.C. says, draping her arm over Logan's shoulder. She startles him out of a reverie he didn't realize he'd slipped into.

"Oh, hey. I was just..." Logan trails off; her knowing look trips him up.

She follows Logan's eyes across to the bar, tilts her head. "Ain't my boo, but hot boy's easy on the eyes."

"He's nothing like Max," Logan mutters. True to a point, but only half the story. Alec's irritating, familiar... solid ground.

Logan shrugs out from under O.C.'s arm. With Max out of reach, he's anchorless and drifting; the music threatens to drown him. He swallows his remaining words and chases them down with a mouthful of bitter beer.

"Dreamer, meet cynic," O.C. says. "Don't front; it don't gotta be like that. Go talk to the boy already."

Somehow her words straighten Logan's shoulders and propel him to the bar, the metallic wheezing of his enhanced legs inaudible under the din. The barcode on the back of Alec's neck is visible across the room; no denying what he is.

Actually, Logan's relying on it.

 

* * *

  


_three: borrowing more than time_

  


* * *

 

Light filters in through the mottled glass of Alec's windows. His apartment's close enough to a sector boundary to enjoy floodlights, so even though it's way past bedtime the streets outside are bright. The lamps inside shine warm and yellow, all fringed shades and stored sunshine. Asha tosses off her jacket and basks in their glow.

Alec's mumbling about small-batch booze; her head's swimming, so she only half-hears him. One too many shots at Crash, maybe. She unzips and kicks off her boots, pads over stocking-footed to turn on his stereo. She was expecting something bad-boy and edgy; the piano music's a bit disconcerting.

She settles into the capacious embrace of a faded ivory leather couch and looks around. Books that were ancient before the Pulse, art scattered carelessly around the room, antique furniture: Alec made her shiver back at Crash with his talk of being dead and dust. No wonder he's thinking about the inexorable grip of time; he's surrounded by mute evidence of it.

She sips the drink he hands her, then coughs. "I thought you said this was beer!"

Alec grins, just this side of smug. "Naw, Kentucky bourbon. Too much of an old-man drink for you?" He settles onto the couch, samples his drink, sets it down. Looks at her warily, like he's expecting her to mock him.

"You're all surprises," Asha says, letting her choppy hair fall in her face. Right about now Logan would reach out, try to tuck it behind her ear. Yeah, okay, it's a little contrived. So what?

Alec ignores her stab at vulnerable cuteness and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. "What do you think they're doing right now?" he murmurs.

"Probably not this," she says, and kisses him. She's wasted too much time waiting for Logan to get over Max, and Alec's just the ticket for helping her forget. He's unbuckling her belt, slipping her pants off. He's shadows and sharp edges and quick action: everything Logan isn't.

Asha's lasted this long in S1W because she adapts and reinvents herself. Thinking on it, though, Alec's got her beat. Since when are genetically engineering killing machines into Brahms, whiskey, and one-night stands?

Verdict: unknown.

Fact: this study in contradictions is quite good with his tongue.

 

* * *

  


_four: limited exposure_

  


* * *

 

So Normal turned Sketchy in to the Feds. Perfectly in character; actually, Sketchy would be shocked at anything different. But the way Original Cindy and Alec are talking, that's something else. He knows what he saw; ain't nobody going to change his mind.

In the alley outside Jam Pony, his beat-up bike's toppled over, the handlebars landing in a murky puddle. Picking it up, he sees that the back tire's low. No problem; a bike messenger's always got a pump.

He digs through his satchel, finding only a hoodie, a wool cap, what's left of his stash, a bottle of water, and that hot-run-9th-and-Grand envelope... because Alec borrowed his pump. He ducks back inside and sees Alec and Original Cindy have their heads together, thick as thieves. What he hears sounds like they thought he was gone.

Fine, he can play it cool. "Hey, Alec. Got my bike pump?"

"In my locker. Sorry about that." Alec's eyes dart to O.C., like he's wondering what Sketchy heard. He doesn't meet Sketchy's eyes. Yeah, totally guilty.

"Happy pumping, boys," says O.C., before she takes off on her own run to the tune of Normal's bip-bip-bip.

Alec grabs the pump out of his locker. "How's about I take care of those tires for ya? Hmm?"

And outside they go, with Alec's veneer of false cheer getting ever thinner as he chatters about the weather, and how many runs he's done this week, and how they should totally hit Blowfish after work.

Sketchy sighs, leaning against the cracked brick of the warehouse's outer wall. "Look, buddy, you can be real with me. How were you hoping our conversation would go? And why do you have to tell Max about it? What does she know?"

"Nothing," Alec says as he leans over Sketchy's bike, but the tattoo on the back of his neck says the opposite of nothing.

Without thinking this all the way through (because where's the fun in that?), Sketchy grabs Alec's jacket by the collar, pulls him up. Definitely a barcode.

"Are you one of _them_?" he chokes out. "Wait... What about Max?" Vertigo hits, and his stomach churns like last night right before he ralphed on that suit's shoes. Being in the dark sucks, but finding things out might be worse. He lets the leather slip out of his hand and staggers. The wall behind him is the way he left it, even if nothing else is.

Alec leans into him, bright eyes framed by long lashes. And damn, the mutant freak kisses like he means it, though everything else from those lips has been a lie. Tastes like salt and trust; calms him, against all reason.

"You're not just a bike messenger, Sketch." Alec's gone in a heartbeat, moving like he's in a comic book.

Kissing him was a calculated move; Sketchy knows the score. Still, can't sell his friends for a cover story.

 

* * *

  


_five: don't know why you say goodbye_

  


* * *

 

Soft fingers glide over Alec's cheek and jaw as the blind girl explores his features in place of Joshua's. With his keen X-5 hearing, Alec catches Joshua's sharp intake of breath. Alec feigns a sigh as cover, but opening his lips gives this Annie girl ideas.

Before Alec can pull away, she leans in and kisses him. Bolder than he thought, she parts her lips and touches the tip of her tongue to his. Scent vials from Manticore's training are overlaid in Alec's memory by his lost Rachel's morning tea. Annie tastes of bergamot and wool and her guide dog. It's the most action Alec's had in weeks, and it's not his action to enjoy.

The girl and her guide dog are a block away before Joshua speaks, a dangerous edge to his voice. "Alec gettin' busy?"

Alec pats his friend on the shoulder. "Alec is the opposite of busy. Your girl's safe from me, though you might wanna--"

"Joshua want to taste Annie," Joshua says, the growl fading into a whimper. "Alec have girls -- ladies -- special friends?"

Alec sighs. "Sure. But it always ends badly."

A shadow passes over Joshua's face as he leans heavily against the doorframe of the crumbling house he's inhabiting. "People afraid of things they don't understand."

Instincts are honed in Manticore training, sharpened to razor precision. X-5s don't make impulse decisions based on emotion, but Alec's never followed the rules. Manticore's broken him in ways he doesn't want to think about, made him an observer in his own life; he can choose differently. Leaning in, Alec presses his mouth to his friend's, passing along the kiss from the girl who's left Joshua wistful.

Doesn't feel as strange as he expected; Joshua's mouth is different from Annie's, sure, but not repellent. Joshua seems surprised for a moment, then begins lapping enthusiastically at Alec's mouth, nose, and chin. Alec laughs and sputters, wiping his face on his sleeve and pulling away, patting Joshua's shoulder.

Joshua's expression starts out puzzled but shifts to enlightened. "Tastes like oranges."

That jogs Alec's memory. "I know a guy in Chinatown who just got in some loose-leaf Earl Grey. Gotta be careful, what with the news, but you could get your lady-love a goodbye present, if you--"

Before he can finish, Joshua darts back into the confines of the house. Alec is struck by an unfamiliar pang; has he made Joshua even more of a hermit? Heartbeats tick by as Alec waits, unwilling to follow. Has his sympathy somehow insulted Joshua's fierce pride?

All Alec's unvoiced fears vanish when Joshua returns, sporting a motorcycle helmet to cover his unique features. Only his eyes show, crinkling in a smile.

"Let's go, middle fella," he says. "Joshua and Alec go for a ride!"


End file.
